Authors Note: Hope you enjoy!
Another year, another awful reminder...
John hadn't quite kept track as to how long he had been resting in his chair, staring vacantly out the window while Mrs. Hudson frantically tried to clean around him in the hopes that Sherlock wouldn't return from his antics anytime soon. His fingers rested around the handle of his mug and his other hand strummed along the frayed fabric of the couch, and to any observer it was quite obvious that the man had been stuck in a deep train of thought for the past half an hour at least.
Why can't the year just skip 'today'?
"Oh Dr. Watson, you don't seem quite yourself today..." A feather duster brushed lightly over the coffee table as the poor woman darted around. Sure, she wasn't the housekeeper, but she sure acted like one. "Is anything the matter?"
It took a few moments until his concentration broke and he glanced upwards at the kindly eyes of the landlady. "Yes, I mean... No, definitely not. Nothing that concerns you anyhow." His free hand found it's way to the back of his head where he began to rub it, as if feeling rather awkward. "Just reflecting on the past few weeks I suppose, with all the bombs and that Moriarty chap who felt the need to strap a bomb to my chest."
"Oh dear, I do recall you and Sherlock found yourself to be in a spot of trouble, but my husband-"
Here we go...
"He wasn't the greatest man, all his cartels and whatnot, but if he was going to torture someone it was always with a vest. I often wondered why but I think it was down to cost-"
"Mrs Hudson?" There was a time and place for chats regarding the Drug Cartels and blackmarket underground operations, and today nor 221B seemed like the place to do it.
Apparently getting the hint, Mrs Hudson raised a finger as if she had struck an idea (highly unlikely), and gave a gentle smile. "I'll go put the kettle on, it's certainly the weather for some tea. You just relax..." And with that, the feather-dusting not-a-housekeeper land-lady tottered off to the kitchen, leaving a rather bemused but slightly irritated John leaning back in his chair, contemplating mixed emotions that were pouring through his mind. And it wasn't as if he could just sit down and discuss them with Sherlock; oh-no. That was entirely out of the question, simply because there were boundaries to where Sherlock pointed his incredibly jutted cheekbones, and John's 'true' past wasn't one of them.
To rewind, John's past hadn't exactly been as uniform as what Sherlock had made it out to be. In fact, while Sherlock had near 99.9% accuracy in deducing John's apparently-broken past, the nature of his deductions were slightly 'off'. For starters, John 'had' been in a war and he 'had' sustained a nearly fatal injury, it just wasn't in Afghanistan and it wasn't in his shoulder, nor had it been a gunshot wound. Today marked the anniversary of the final battle and John had lost many of his friends and family in that battle; Augustus, Baritan, Helmiece, he could go on. The final day of that war had been the ultimate decider on a battlefield that had been spilt with the ashes and blood of those he held most dear, and had been the reason for his simpleton life in the Muggle-realm. Ah, but to clarify. John was not a muggle, nor had the war been of one with simple weapons.
The war had been a magical one, held over the fields and miles that connected Platform 9 and 3/4 to the Hogwarts grounds over the course of 24 hours, and albeit spilling into and around the school. It had involved students, teachers, mothers, fathers, children, auroras and key members of the resistance with a strong understanding of the Dark Arts. All of these individuals had rallied together in one last attempt to force the Dark Lord into a much more permanent state of death; and for the time being they had reigned some success. In this war, John had held a key position in the resistance as a naturally skilful fighter, and his talents had been put to a violent use that day. Many death eaters had died at the end of his wand, yet many innocent children had died before his eyes. Stone cold and lying on the stone at his feet, unable to be helped.
The day of the war had also been the day that John had been struck with a rather aggressive curse, putting him in a state of both physical and emotional pain that had been left lingering for a good six months or so. Adding that to all the trauma he had witnessed, his resignation from the resistance and his role at the Ministry of Magic had not come a moment sooner, and before he knew it he had settled into a life in London. Magic still coursed through his veins, but he knew the rules and obeyed them wisely. No magic was to be performed on muggles, nor was it appropriate to use it in the muggle-world. It didn't stop him from performing a few tricks for his own personal gain (washing the dishes, or heating up his tea for example), but exercising caution was rather important in his circumstances. Most wizards and witches chose not to defect to the Muggle world, and for good reason. But John had really had enough, and to his shock that had been almost 2 years ago.
Two years to the day, and here he was.
And the thoughts of those children never left his mind.
But alas, he was happy; for the most part. He had some sort of a friend (he had hoped, anyway), and he had been keeping busy. He never really tried to forget about his true nature, but aiding sentiment he still kept his 'possessions' locked safely away in a chest, lodged towards the back of his cupboard. One of those possessions being his Oakwood Elderflower hybrid wand; and there were days when the distance between that stick and John caused his heart to ache, but that was natural. A wizard's wand was almost as important as a limb, so it often pained John to go near his cupboard when he could feel the pull of the wand try to draw him closer. Just another reminder of a past I promised I wouldn't go back to... Although he figured that 'natural' pull would eventually weaken, yet he wasn't holding out much hope.
"I wonder where Sherlock is..." John murmured, briefly eyeing the window and entertaining the idea that Sherlock would somehow chose to climb up the building instead of using the door. Yes, it had most definitely been a boring day. Although it was highly likely that Sherlock had been pottering around for a case, which was quite possibly related to the body of a rather, err, large woman who had been found absolutely petrified, as white as a ghost and as rigid as a board - Yet appeared as though she had literally been caught in the moment and killed while running. Of course, there hadn't been a wound, and she hadn't been frozen. She was literally a picture perfect portrait of a woman who had died in a split second, seemingly aware of her fate according to her expression.
And while John tried to avoid the fact that he knew exactly what this sounded like, every ounce of his being was screaming 'PETRIFICUS TOTALUS'.
The spell to petrify a wizard and stop the heart of a muggle.
"Better not be that case..."